


you can hear it in the silence (you are in love)

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, like 75 percent of this is laura's head in carmilla's lap, like complete utter garbage fluff and nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla and Laura, New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can hear it in the silence (you are in love)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "you are in love" by taylor swift
> 
> yeah it's plotless carmilla fluff with a taylor swift title; i don't know myself anymore either

There is a girl on your lap, dozing, the expanding and contracting of her ribcage a distraction. You’re trying to read—really, you are; the world will not make sense of _itself,_ after all, and if words are a poor medium you’ve found nothing better, not yet—but she’s snoring softly and her knees are curled up toward her chest and one of her hands is resting against your thigh, and as much as you want to be reading you think you might rather put down the book.

You’re going soft in your old age, you tell yourself, despite the fact that you will never (can never) grow old. The thought prods the old ache inside you, but you soothe it tracing the architecture of Laura’s skull. You stroke the fine hairs at her temple, curl her hair behind her ear. She huffs a warm breath against your skin and pulls, somehow, closer; the hand on your thigh holds tighter, tugging her whole body farther into you. She curls up around you, head in the hollow of your crossed legs. You trace her hairline and the shell of her ear, and then her hairs grow short and fine again at her neck; they’ve frizzed up air-drying after her shower and you smooth them into the rest of her hair, fingertips lingering on the tender skin of her neck.

You declined her Christmas invitation; you’ve never been one for religious holidays, and despite Laura’s assurances that Christmas at her house was more about gift-giving and cookie-decorating than celebrating the births of celestial beings, you spent the twenty-fifth alone. The thirty-first is a little more your speed. Sure, time is a construct designed to impose a false sense of order on an essentially meaningless universe, and sure, counting up from Jesus’ birth gives you hives. But there’s something so gorgeously human about the practice of celebrating an arbitrary turnover of numbers, and something delicious in a desperate, primal way about lighting up a midwinter night.

Laura bought fireworks. You should wake her before midnight, so she has a chance to use them, but there’s an hour to spare. Instead you trace the length of her neck, curl her hair around your fingers, venerate her skin with your fingertips. She stirs, mumbling something you can’t make out, and then curls in ever closer to you. Her striped pajama pants wrinkle around her knees, and her hands tighten their grip: one on your thigh, the new pressure sending a hitch into your breathing, and one on the hem of the plaid button-up you took from her closet.

You can hear the New Year’s Eve special on TV through the cracked door; this was the compromise Laura and her father agreed upon, following a conversation that involved a lot of “Dad, I’m nineteen years old.” Given that he’s taken to pointedly avoiding this end of this house after walking in on a total of one kiss, you think it’s more than fair. And, at least for the moment, you don’t have intentions beyond combing your fingers through her hair.

You adjust your position as well as you can without disturbing her, leaning back against the pillows and allowing her head to remain nestled in your lap. Her mouth opens slightly, enough that you think she might begin to drool on your skirt.

You don’t try to stop her. You brush her hair away from her shoulder and your fingers trace deliberate circles on the skin bared there by her tank top, the freckles fading from their summertime glory. She curls around out and leaves a drool stain on your skirt and you—

Well. It’s eleven-thirty, so you wake her up. She groans at first, turning her head as if trying to burrow into you, but you murmur, “Laura, it’s almost time,” and she rouses herself. She reaches for her laptop practically before she’s conscious, and opens it to the Consumer Fireworks Safety page.

Laura has safety goggles, and a bucket of water, and practically everything suggested by the government, but she still insists on measuring out a safe twenty-meter distance for spectators. You wait behind the chalked-out line with her father. You can hear shouts from the neighborhood around you as midnight approaches, and Laura joins them gleefully: _Five! four! three! two! one!_ and she sets the sky on fire.

“Did you like it?” she asks, breathless, her words turning to ice crystals in the freezing night air, and you kiss her cold mouth swiftly, enough to answer, not enough to embarrass her bashful father. You bury your face in her hair and murmur “I loved it, I love you.” She kisses the top of your head; she takes your hand and leads you inside to ring in the new year.


End file.
